


Sapling

by Ovipositivity



Series: Folk [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Elf/Human Relationship(s), Human/Monster Romance, Human/Monster Society, Modern Era, Multi, Nymphs & Dryads, Polyamory, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 11:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ovipositivity/pseuds/Ovipositivity
Summary: You're finding yourself very attracted to your boss at the botanical garden. The fact that he's a centuries-old sylvan elf... and married... doesn't slow you down one bit.





	1. Chapter 1

You’ve been working at the botanical garden for about a week when it dawns on you that you’re about to make a serious mistake.

You know it’s wrong. You know all the arguments against what you’re about to do: they’re good ones. They’re persuasive. But you can’t help yourself.

At some point in the next few months, you are absolutely, 100% going to fuck your boss. Your  _ married _ boss.

His name is Hebryvyth, he’s five hundred and sixty eight years old, and he’s a sylvan elf. His hair is mossy green, his skin the crinkled brown of old-growth bark. His eyes shimmer like dewdrops left behind by the retreating night. What are you  _ supposed  _ to do about that? When he speaks to you, his voice is low and calm and patient, even when you’ve just badly mangled a cutting that was supposed to be grafted this week. Even when you’ve ripped a bag of fertilizer or tripped while carrying a tray of samples, scattering them across the floor. When he shakes his head at you, his huge crest of horns– velvety, like an elk’s, because it’s still barely midsummer– sways like a metronome, and you find yourself hypnotized by it.

You had graduated only a month ago, the ink was still practically wet on your diploma, and finding this job this soon had been a coup. You loved the city and didn’t want to leave it, but there were limited opportunities to use your degree in such a tightly-packed urban setting. There was hardly any greenery left here. But the botanical garden in the Commons had an opening, and your labwork had always been excellent, so two phone calls later you were sitting in front of Hebryvyth in your best (only) suit and trying not to stare.

“So, Y/N,” he’d said in a voice like the wind sighing through the branches, “what is it that draws you to nature? If you love the green, why live in a city that has so little of it?”

You’d stammered something out about preserving what little beauty remained, making sure everyone got to enjoy it, and some cliche about dirt under your nails. You could hardly hear yourself talk. Your pulse was pounding in your ears as you took in every detail: the smooth lacquer of his fingernails, the tiny leaves poking out from under his starched collar. Whatever you said must have impressed him, because a week later you were getting the full tour.

On those occasions when you reflect on your misfortune, you suppose the trouble started on your second week. You arrived at your workstation– a standing desk in the corner of the lab, next to the trash can– to find something resting there already. A flower crown, woven from wire-thin branches and covered in blooming lilac. The scent of it filled the air around your desk with heady sweetness. You picked it up in trembling hands and noted without surprise that the plants all looked alive and blooming. It fit your head perfectly. You walked around with your head in the clouds for the rest of the day, even when Rachel two desks over came back from her lunch and saw it. “Oh, that’s a pretty one,” she said without a trace of surprise. “He makes them for all the new employees. Kind of a ‘welcome aboard’ present.”

That may be so, but this one was special. You knew it. This one was yours. And someday, Hebryvyth would be too.

By the time you had met his wife, your crush was terminal. It was at a gala celebrating some important anniversary for the garden; you’d been assured that you didn’t  _ have _ to show up, but you weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to dress up for Hebryvyth. You squeezed into your sea-green dress and spent an hour looking at makeup tutorials on YouTube. The few sylvan videos you found were rather heavier on wood stain and varnish than blush and concealer, but you eventually settled on a look that seemed “foresty.” At the gala you’d clung to Rachel, one of the few people you recognized, until Hebryvyth came by to say hello. He wore a tuxedo tonight and his horns were hung with ribbons and little tinkly bells. Every movement was accompanied by a windchime carillion.

Behind him was another sylvan elf: tall, with high cheekbones and long, flowing locks like the branches of a willow tree. She wore a simple, sleeveless chiffon gown that clung to her like cobweb. Her bare arms looked like tree branches in midwinter. She smiled down at you–  _ God, she’s tall _ , you remember thinking– but there was no warmth in it. It was as though in one look she had pierced your deep and secret desire and it amused her. _ Go ahead, try _ , her eyes said. _ I’d love to see it. _

“This is my wife, Eliatiss,” Hebryvyth had said. “Elia, this is Y/N, our newest employee.”

“A pleasure, dear,” she’d said, and extended one hand. What could you do? You shook it with a big, fake grin on your face. Her touch was surprisingly warm and gentle, though it still felt like shaking hands with a scarecrow. “You look lovely,” she added, and turned to her husband. “Come, dear, there are some people here from the Academy that you have to meet.”

Meeting her, you realized now, had been the start of something new. Before that, it was a crush. Now, it was a competition. You had always been a bit shy at school, and your few attempts at flirting had been painfully awkward. Now you studied seduction the same way you’d crammed for an Organic Chem final. You went out and bought an array of new tops, some scandalously low-cut. Well, it was summer. There was nothing wrong with that.

At work, you found excuses to spend time with Hebryvyth. This, you realized quickly, was more exhausting than you’d expected. With a title like Director of Operations, you’d expect him to spend most of his time in the office pushing paper around. He leaves most of that to his secretary, a faun named Glorianth, and instead spends his days wandering the park. As often as you can, you join him on his rounds, sweating and toting your watering can and your pruning shears.

His technique is not like any you’ve studied. He’s _ touchy  _ with the plants, getting down on his hands and knees and plunging his fingers into the wet soil. He presses his ear up against the bark of a tree and listens to it. He carefully plucks a single petal from a blooming rose and places it between his lips.

Then he tells you to cut  _ here _ or trim  _ there _ or take a sample from _ this _ bush. And you obey, but you’re careful to bend at the waist and hold the watering can two-handed in a way that pushes your breasts up and out. Is he looking at you? You don’t dare check. When he makes a joke– and he does, often, in the same soft deadpan that he always uses– you laugh and laugh. You find excuses to touch him, to draw his attention to areas of new growth or worrying patches of blight. When you find a small cluster of orchids growing wild in a rocky cleft, he actually  _ compliments  _ you, and for the rest of the day your feet barely touch the ground.

One day in mid-July you call him over to your station to ask about an unusual pattern you’ve noticed on some of the elm bark you’ve recovered. You stand at his shoulder as he turns your samples over and then peers at them under the microscope. When you lean in to look, your boobs press against his side and you feel his breath in your hair. You don’t dare say anything. He doesn’t respond to your touch at all. He just waits until you straighten up, then nods at you and tells you you’re doing a great job. As he leaves, Rachel scurries over to your desk.

“What the  _ hell  _ are you doing, Y/N?” she hisses as soon as Hebryvyth is gone. You look around before answering. It’s just the two of you and Glorianth in today, and the faun is bopping her head with some poppy music video and playing Solitaire on her work computer.

“I’m just looking for elm-leaf beetle eggs,” you say, as nonchalantly as you can. “They’re a real pest, you-”

“Don’t play stupid!” she says. “I’ve seen the way you act around him. Jesus,  _ everyone’s  _ seen it. You’re not exactly being subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, but your heart’s not in it. Damn! You thought you were being subtle.

“Whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes. “One, he’s like… more than ten times your age. Two, he’s  _ married _ . Three…” she bites her lip and trails off. “One and two should be enough. You gotta stop this, Y/N. This is a  _ bad  _ idea.”

“What’s three?” you retort. “You want him yourself? Are you actually jealous?” It’s just a clumsy misdirection, but to your surprise, she blushes and looks away. Is she  _ really _ ?

“No,” she snaps, then softens. “Look, I’m just trying to help you. This is really not a good idea. You have a good job here. You’re a smart girl. Don’t mess it up for yourself.”

“Oh, should I be thanking you for your wisdom?” you say. You don’t mean to bite her head off, but you’re suddenly so angry. Her jealousy is leading her to sabotage your burgeoning romance. And she’s only three years older than you! Maybe she tried what you’re trying herself, you reflect. It didn’t work for her, but it must be working for you. Otherwise, why would she warn you off?

“Thanks for the advice, Rachel,” you say as sweetly as you can. “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.” You turn back to your bark samples and bend over to look in the microscope. With a last shake of her head, Rachel stalks back to her desk.

After that, she doesn’t come around nearly as much, and she must have spread the word because nobody else does either. That suits you just fine. Hebryvyth still seems to enjoy your company. In fact, he’s started to request you accompany him on his rounds of the park. You walk as close as you dare and breathe deeply, inhaling the woody scent of him. It’s like stepping into an old-growth forest. Once, when the two of you are walking through a little valley, a hidden grove at the center of the park, you take his hand. He starts slightly, but doesn’t pull away. All you can hear is the thudding of your heart. You stare straight ahead, back ramrod-straight, sweat beading on your forehead. When you reach the end of the valley he gently pulls his hand back, but his fingers caress your palm and you nearly faint.

The two of you exchange numbers, ostensibly to communicate when you’re at opposite ends of the park. You haven’t gotten any kind of official promotion– certainly not a raise– but you’re his deputy now, and he often sends you on little errands. Let the others grumble. This is love, now you’re sure of it, and love must be free to bloom. It would be  _ wrong  _ to hide your feelings. You haven’t discussed any of this with Hebryvyth. In truth, you’re not even sure how to bring it up. But in your moments together, you can feel it pouring off him, a desire as strong as yours. A yearning, like a seed’s yearning to grow and flower, to become a tree. The same primal force that pushes saplings up through six inches of soil.

You’re just as clumsy at flirting by text as you are in person, but you fill your messages to him with emojis, smiling and winking and occasionally blowing a kiss. You call him Hebry, and he never corrects you. You send ribald jokes and innuendos that would make a sailor blush. He’s more subdued, but sometimes he surprises you. You didn’t think people his age even  _ knew  _ about the eggplant emoji.

Finally, the moment you’ve been working towards arrives. You knew this was all building up to something, but it still shocks you when it arrives. Friday, you’re getting ready to go home and enjoy a solid weekend of Netflix bingeing, when you sense someone behind you. You sigh and ready yourself to politely tell Rachel to mind her own business.

It’s not Rachel. It’s Hebry. He’s standing there, tall and solemn, staring at you with his dewdrop eyes. His horns are magnificent. Most of the velvet has peeled away, leaving arcing spires of what looks like ivory. The tallest tines are wrapped in flowers and their petals rain down gently like confetti.

“Y/N,” he begins when he sees you looking at him. “Would you like to join me for dinner tomorrow?”

“I…” you begin. All of a sudden the reality of your situation crashes onto you. Is this what you want? Is it really?  _ Last chance _ , an inner voice tells you, and to your annoyance it sounds like Rachel’s. You brush it aside. “That sounds lovely,” you say. “Where?”

He hands you a slip of paper with an address on it. It’s in the suburbs, but you figure you can catch an Uber. You accept it with shaking fingers. “My house,” he says. “Six pm.” His eyes linger on you for a moment and then he’s gone in a trail of falling petals and floral scent. You clutch the paper to your chest and sigh.

Your barely sleep at all that night. You toss and turn for hours, eventually reaching into your bottom drawer and retrieving the vibrator stashed under your socks. You buck and thrash on top of your sheets until they’re soaked with sweat and you’re breathing hard. Finally you drift off, but your dreams provide no relief; in them, you’re a forest nymph, a tiny creature draped in diaphanous silks. You skip through the forests until a looming, horned shape chases you down, pins you to the ground, and ravishes you slowly and thoroughly.

You wake up confused and tangled up in the sheets. A shower sets you partially to rights, and after a bowl of cereal you set to work. Makeup first: foundation, concealer, blush, highlights on your nose and cheekbones and forehead. Lipliner and lipstick and your stubby eyebrow pencil. You throw open your closet and try outfit after outfit. They’re all wrong for some reason or other: too dowdy, too gaudy, too slutty, not slutty enough. You wish you had prepared better. You finally settle for a dark blue cocktail dress long enough that you’d be ok with your mom seeing you wear it. You put your hair up in a bun and admire yourself in the mirror. Now that’s a good look. It’s still early afternoon, so you lounge around on the couch watching a Netflix comedy special. Your roommate comes home and gawks at you. “ _ Damn _ , Y/N!” she says. “You look  _ hot _ ! Going out tonight?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying to sound indifferent about it. “You know. Might be fun.” You gently deflect any questions about “the guy.” “Just someone I met online,” you insist, and though you don’t think she buys it, she’s polite enough not to dig into your business. Finally, it’s late enough for you to call your car.

Your driver drops you off at five minutes of six, and you catch your first sight of the house. It’s impossible to mistake it now that you’re here. Most suburban houses don’t have a tree growing right up through the middle, its broad canopy spreading like an umbrella overhead. The neighborhood is pretty toney, and you wonder just how much the Director of Operations makes. A ripple of doubt twists your tummy. Is this a mistake after all? You get the feeling that you are terribly, hopelessly out of your depth. No, you tell yourself. This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve been aiming for the whole time.

Your heels click off the stone path that leads to the front door. You ring the doorbell and wait politely. The door is mahogany and carved with a bas-relief pattern of leaves and twisting vines. Just as you think you should maybe knock, it swings open. “Good evening, Heb–” you begin, and stop. There’s nobody there.

“Hello?” Your voice echoes in the anteroom. You step inside and peer around the door. Beyond the little entrance room, the center of the house is open, revealing the massive trunk of the tree at its core. It must be ten feet across. Smaller plants are everywhere, sitting in pots or in little hanging troughs. It’s warm and humid in here, almost like a rainforest. A spiral staircase leads upward, around the tree. You step further inside and close the door behind you. The house, as far as you can tell, is still and empty. The only sounds are your footsteps and the fading echoes of your voice.

“Hello?” you call again. You look left and right, and a horrible thought grips you. What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s gotten cold feet? You knew this was a mistake, you knew you shouldn’t–

Footsteps fill the air. Is it Hebry, come to tell you to go home, it was all a mistake? Or is he here to apologize and usher you inside for a magical evening? You look around frantically, then look up in time to see the figure descending the spiral staircase. Your heart sinks. It’s worse than either of those options.

It’s his wife.


	2. Chapter 2

You freeze as Eliatiss descends the stairs. She takes her time, one hand on the marble banister, the other daintily gathering her skirts so she won’t tread on them. Her stiletto heels click against the marble like the ticking of a clock. You know you should run, or scream, or prepare to defend yourself, but you can only stare. The last time you saw her she was elegant. Now, she’s  _ gorgeous _ . Her skin is the crinkled texture of bark, her eyes pools of rainwater in the hollow of a tree. Her hair hangs down across her shoulders like the branches of a cherry tree in full bloom. You can’t tell if the flowers in her hair are decorations or  _ part _ of her. They’re certainly still alive and growing. You can smell them as she approaches. She’s wearing a gown of gold lace and green tulle that swishes around her as she moves. The overall impression is of a forest spirit emerging from a blooming flower, but the awe and majesty of her approach is somewhat marred by her obvious fury. And there’s something else in her eyes, a nasty little gleam of anticipation that you don’t like one bit.

You might still have time to turn and run, but two things stay your feet. First is shame. You  _ knew _ this was a bad idea, you  _ knew _ it was wrong, but you did it anyways. Hebryvyth has probably already been punished for his transgression, but you haven’t. Yet. Second, and most shamefully, is a hint of desire. You’ve probably lost your job and burned your bridge, so what do you have to lose? If there’s any chance of getting what you came for, you’ll take it. If Hebryvyth wants you, he’ll have you, regardless of what his wife has to say about it.

And then the time for thought is over because she’s on you. Her twiglike fingers scoop up a fistful of your hair and yank painfully on it. She tilts your head until you’re looking up into her face. Surprisingly, you still feel no fear. A small, clinical part of you wonders if it’s just a delayed reaction and you’re in shock. There’s something else, though, a hint of something in her eyes that calms you. What is she…

“So. You dare to come into my house, you little  _ tramp _ ,” she begins, and you almost laugh out loud. She sounds like a character from a Regency novel. “You  _ hussy _ !” she continues, and you tamp down your giggles. “You thought you could  _ steal _ from me? My roots are  _ deep _ , young lady! Hebryvyth is  _ mine _ ! Who are you? Some soft, pink thing from the city, some scrap of a girl with sticky fingers?” She drags you forward and you have no choice but to come or lose half your hair. There are tears in the corners of your eyes now and your heart is in your throat, but beneath the fear there’s a little tummy-twisting thrill. You want to go with her, if only to see where she’s taking you.  _ What’s wrong with me? _ you think.

She drags out onto the stairs and begins to climb. She’s setting a grueling pace and you can barely keep up, but it’s that or be scalped, so you scramble madly. Your hands bat at hers, but you might as well be trying to push down an oak. Her grip is implacable.

The staircase spirals upward around the broad trunk. You catch faint glimpses of hallways and balconies off on the outside, but you don’t have time to study them closely. Finally the staircase ends. You’re panting and exhausted; you must be near the roof, you realize.

The trunk of the tree ends here in a profusion of branches that twist and grasp towards the night sky overhead. It’s a beautiful, clear night, and you can see stars glimmering between the leaves. The branches grow outward and upward, but at their center there’s a clear space. There’s no sign of cutting or trimming; somehow, the tree has been coaxed to grow outward, leaving a flat void in the middle, about the size of a room. It’s here that Eliatiss leads you, and you realize it’s not empty.

In the middle of the thicket of branches, a circular clearing. In the middle of the clearing, a wood throne. Sitting on the throne, Hebryvyth,

He looks  _ magnificent _ . He’s wearing a leather loincloth and nothing else. His hands grip the arms of the chair and he stares straight ahead, not acknowledging you or his wife. His face is set in an expression of grim determination. His chest is broad and chiseled, and despite the woody texture of his skin, you could pick out every single muscle if you had an anatomical chart. Garlands of flowers and pinecones drape around his neck and rest against his pectorals. His biceps bulge beneath bands of ancient, weathered copper and beaten bronze. His horns rise up in a spectacular crest, the tines glistening wetly as though they’ve been oiled. Some bear golden rings or smaller strings of flowers. He looks primeval, like an altar deep in the forest where ancient people practiced rites of sacrifice to please the spirits. The thought sends a queasy spear through you. Are you a sacrifice now, too?

Eliatiss forces you to your knees before him. This close, you can smell him. The mossy smell you recognize from work, but there’s more to it: a deep hearty musk rolls off him with an almost physical force. One whiff and you’re dizzy. It fills your brain with shapeless thoughts: bodies writhing in the mists of the forest floor, wild howls that echo from tree to tree. Your cheeks flush and desire blossoms deep inside you. You can feel yourself growing damp between the thighs.

With a flourish, Eliatiss reaches forward and tugs away his loincloth. His cock springs free and you gasp. It’s as beautiful as the rest of him, a stiff root the size of your forearm with a bulbous tip that leaks a thin trickle of what looks like sap. The musky smell redoubles as it waves to and fro in front of your face. You find yourself drooling as you stare. The object of your desires is now, quite literally, within reach.

Eliatiss’s grip on your hair slackens and she leans forward until her mouth is next to your ear. “Well,” she whispers, “this is what you wanted, isn’t it? This is what you’ve been dreaming of? You think you can handle it? You think you can please him the way he deserves?” Her next words are delivered in a hiss of mingled pride, rage, and eager lust. “ _ Prove it _ .”

She doesn’t need to tell you twice. You part your lips and sink your head onto his shaft. You expect it to be like sucking on a twig, but he surprises you; his member is warm and pliant, despite its rough texture. It tastes rich and woody, like casket-aged scotch, with just a hint of mint. You take your time, rolling it around and around on your tongue, filling first one cheek than the other with the bulbous head. You’ve always enjoyed this feeling. A man lying back, helpless, all of his attention directed at the swell of delicate flesh wholly under your control… that’s power, real power, for those who know how to wield it. Your technique has improved since those first fumbling experiments in the back seats of cars, and your head bobs up and down as your tongue flicks out to tease and cajole him. Hebryvyth is still sitting immobile in his chair, but you can feel his eyes on you. His expression is solemn and stern but his eyes are warm. They follow your progress with mute approval. You can see his balls dangling like ripe fruit and you cup them in one hand. Your other strokes his shaft as your head pops off his tip, a thin bridge of saliva still connecting it to your lips. You keep stroking and lower your mouth to his testicles. You pop first one, then the other into your mouth, enjoying the smooth roundness, the musky taste. It’s not sour and sweaty; Hebryvyth tastes clean and natural, like a sapling fed from a mountain stream.

You wrap your lips around his tip again and something oozes out onto your tongue. It’s warm and sweet, like the sap from maple trees, and you swallow eagerly. As soon as its hits your stomach warmth blooms outward. It surges through your veins and lights up your brain like a Christmas tree. You let out a little involuntary gasp and, somewhere behind you, you hear a snort. You turn as far as you can with your mouthful of sylvan elf and you see Eliatiss sitting on a nearby branch. She’s watching you with a professional’s appraising look in her eyes, but her smile is warm and her skirts have been hiked up past her knees. As you watch she slowly, deliberately licks one palm and slides her hand up under her dress. For a moment you’re so shocked you stop what you’re doing, but Hebryvyth politely clears his throat and you turn back to your task.

You speed up now that you’ve found your stride. Your tongue swirls around, faster and faster, and your head bounces up and down. More sweet precum leaks from his tip and you gulp it down eagerly. You try to hilt him inside you but he’s too large– your jaw creaks before he’s halfway in, and just as his head is reaching the back of your throat, you slump in defeat. You did what you could, but you can’t unhinge your jaw. Maybe Eliatiss can.

Still, you lavish attention on those parts of him that remain within reach. Your tongue darts out to tease his hole while your lips squeeze and massage his head. You have both hands on his shaft now and you’re pumping, pumping, pumping for your life. He’s unmoving, but you can feel something shifting in him, like sap rising with the heartbeat of spring. You close your eyes and all at once Eliatiss is there, by your ear. Her voice sounds hoarse and ragged to you as she pushes your head forward. “It’s coming!” she croons. “Take it! Take his blessing!”

Hebryvyth groans, once, and then his member is twitching in your mouth and then it’s erupting. Thick, sticky wads of his seed splash into your cheeks and paint the back of your throat. It’s sweet, so sweet, like honey and nectar, and your throat works greedily to swallow mouthful after hot, buttery mouthful. Despite your best efforts some leaks out across your chin, but you don’t mind– it’s ecstasy, the taste of him. When the flow finally slackens you lean back and let his softening prick slide out of your mouth with a wet sound. Normally after this the guy is exhausted and putty in your hands, but Hebryvyth looks as calm and sedate as ever. It’s you who’s struggling to breathe, struggling to regain control over yourself. Eliatiss dabs primly at your chin, cleaning up the last few errant droplets, then raises her finger to her mouth and licks it clean. “Heavenly,” she proclaims, then turns to Hebryvyth. “You chose well, my love,” she says. “This one is quite eager.”

Wait, what?

Before you have time to process this, Hebryvyth begins to stand. He moves slowly but with a sort of glacial implacability. He towers over you in your seated posture and you stare up in wonder. In this moment you see him for what he is: a forest king, ancient and wise, crowned in the lore of sun and wind and soil, his court birch and elm and maple. His cock is stiffening, too, returning to full mast with commendable speed. Eliatiss has already pulled her dress off over her head. Beneath it she’s naked. A thatch of moss over her pubic mound hides her sex from view, but her breasts are as round and plump as harvest-time apples, tipped with hard mahogany nipples that jut proudly in the cool night air. She lays her hands on your hips and looks down at you with a haughty expression. “I would remove that dress, dear,” she says. “If you still want what you came for.”

You do. Heaven help you, you  _ do _ .

 


	3. Chapter 3

You have a moment to question whether you’re doing the right thing. There you are, dripping with sweat, your face smeared with spit and what feels like sap. Your hair is mussed, you lost a shoe somewhere, and you’re struggling to pull your dress over your head. A thick, peaty musk fills your nostrils, the smell of a thousand thousand plants straining in unison to live, to grow, to spread their roots and drink in the rain and sun.

Of course you’re doing the right thing. Did you ever doubt it?

Your hands are covered in wonderful stickiness and it smears all over your dress as you pull it off. A little voice at the back of your head frets over whether it’ll have to go for dry cleaning. The rest of you luxuriates in the feeling of a breeze against your bare skin. Gooseprickles rise on your back and your nipples stand out stiff and proud. Eliatiss helps you untangle yourself from your dress and whisks it out of your hands. You’re left kneeling on the ground. It’s smooth beneath your knees, cool, but not perfectly flat; it undulates slightly, and you adjust your posture to match. Your knees slide into slight depressions in the wood grain and your discomfort vanishes. It’s like the floor here was molded to the shape of your body; it fits you perfectly.

You arch your back and plant your hands shoulder width apart. You can’t resist shaking your butt a little. Eliatiss strokes one hand down your back, then cups your chin in a grip that’s just short of painful. “Are you ready?” she purrs in your ear. “Are you ready to receive him?”

You want to speak, to tell her you’ve never been readier, but when you open your mouth all that comes out is a little whine. You need this. Your pussy is aching, your clit a thrumming bead. It’s fully awake now and demanding attention. You reach down with one hand but Eliatiss intercepts it, moving like a snake. Her fingers lock tight around your wrist and you cry out more in frustration than in pain. She squeezes your jaw and shakes her head.

“Tsk, tsk, Y/N,” she says. “Not before time.”

Hebryvyth’s shadow falls over you. The moonlight that filters down through the canopy is plenty bright enough to illuminate him. It lends a silvery cast to his features and twinkles off the tips of his horns. His jutting penis glistens. It’s hypnotizing you– your eyes follow its swaying motion, closer and closer. He kneels down behind you and you feel it brushing against your thigh. A thick drop of sappy precum beads on its tip and smears against your skin. For the first time, you feel a thrill of fear. Hebryvyth’s cock had felt huge in your mouth. What if it’s too much? What if you can’t–

No more time for thought. He lays the round head of his cock against your sex and, with a single thrust of his hips, plunges inside.

All the air is driven out of your lungs in one exhalation. It’s not the physical force of Hebryvyth’s thrust– it’s the incredible sensation of relief. He  _ fills _ you from the very first penetration. His cock doesn’t feel like others you’ve known, or your not-insubstantial collection of toys. It’s rough, like bark, but pliant enough not to hurt you. You can feel it scraping against your inner walls and searching out your secret places. You close your eyes and bite your lower lip to stifle an undignified moan. Hebryvyth’s hands descend on your flanks and you tense, but he doesn’t squeeze you or swat at your buttocks (why do guys do that, anyways? Is it a porn thing? You never understood). His hands are a warm and reassuring presence, letting you know that he’s there. He’s got you. You breathe in and your lungs fill with a sweet and pleasant scent. You grind your hips back against him and he waits there patiently, letting you find your pace. You slide forward and back, forward and back, luxuriating in the ripe feeling of fullness.

Eliatiss releases your face and takes a step back, then kneels down and watches you. She lays her hands on her knees. You can see the moisture beading her sex, but she makes no move to touch herself. The look on her face is pure pleasure. She’s practically salivating. Her eyes sparkle at the sight of you. You’re heaving and sweating, cooing and sighing, totally helpless in the grip of your lust. Normally being seen like that would be your worst nightmare, but you are actually taking a perverse pride in your wanton display. If Eliatiss expects you to back down, she’s going to be disappointed.

Heat is rising in your blood now, rolling outward in waves from the supernova between your legs. Your clit feels like it’s on fire. You press your cheek against the cool smoothness of the wood floor and it feels so good you might cry. It’s a welcome relief from the inferno consuming your brain. Your fears, your worries, your regrets, they all crisp up and blow away like dry leaves. You know that fire is a natural part of the life cycle of a forest. It’s a cleansing that clears out the old to make room for the new. You’re on the cusp of something new now, and the taste of it takes your breath away.

Hebryvyth bucks his hips into you, at first slowly, then picking up steam. His movements are slow but inexorable. All you can do is try your best to endure them. You thought the pleasure was intense before– that’s  _ nothing _ compared to how it feels now, every motion seemingly calculated to stimulate your most sensitive parts. Your orgasm creeps up on you quite suddenly. One minute you’re struggling to draw in a deep, musky breath, the next you’re seeing stars. Your vaginal muscles clench and spasm wildly around him, but that only seems to drive him to greater heights. He doesn’t slow for a second. His cock is pumping, pumping, deeper than you thought possible, deeper than you’ve ever taken before. There’s no pain, only and endless series of silent explosions behind your eyes that rob you of rational thought. You can’t stifle your moans anymore and they fill the air. The lewd chorus echoes off the branches and back to your ears, but far from embarrassing you, the sounds fill you with pride– because mingled in among your frantic vocalizations are Hebryvyth’s deeper grunts. He’s getting close, too.

You’re still recovering from the aftershocks of your first climax when you feel the second one approaching. Hebryvyth’s thrusts have increased in ferocity, and his bollocks slap against your quim with a wet splat every time he hilts himself. You gather what remains of your thoughts and clench your passage as tight as you can. Two more thrusts and he plants himself as deeply as he can. His hands stiffen and he groans above you. You can feel his cock twitch inside you, then it erupts in a hot, sticky spray, painting your inner walls with his seed.

The feeling of his spunk pouring into you pushes you over the top and you cum too. Your upper body collapses bonelessly to the ground. Your fingers clench into fists, your toes spasmodically curl and uncurl. You writhe in sweet torment. Your heart is pounding, but each beat seems to come with glacial slowness: boom-BOOM, boom-BOOM. The moment stretches onward and onward and just when you think you can take no more, it subsides. You exhale and all the strength runs out of your body.

Hebryvyth finally releases you and shuffles backward. His softening prick slips out of your pussy with a wet sound, followed by a tiny waterfall of his seed. It glugs out and trickles down your thighs and you have just enough presence of mind to roll over so you don’t land belly-first in a puddle.

You lie on the ground fighting for breath for what feels like several minutes. The next thing you know, arms are scooping you up, strong arms that cradle you under the shoulders and lift your lolling head. You look up to see Hebryvyth’s face framed against the silver disc of the moon, but he’s not the one holding you. Eliatiss smiles down at your expression of fucked-out confusion.

“You did wonderfully, Y/N,” she says.

“You… what…?” you manage. Your scattered thoughts are just starting to pull back together. There was something about… a competition?

“I’m sorry if I scared you earlier, darling.” There’s a genuine smile on her face now, a warm expression devoid of mockery or cruel humor. “I wanted this to be your choice. You had to want it more than anything.”

“You don’t… you don’t…”

“Mind?” She throws back her head and her laughter sounds like a carillion of little silver bells. “Heavens, no! Y/N, we’re more than five centuries old. You do what you can to keep things fresh and interesting. We’ve had our eyes on you for some time.”

“Your eyes?” You wish you could contribute more to your half of this conversation, but it’s hard enough to remember how to make the words. You’re still coming down from the best orgasm of your life.

“Yes, dear. We think you have a lot of promise. So if you want– only if you want– you’re welcome to… join us. We’ll take good care of you, I promise.”

Hebryvyth’s face looms close, and there’s something changed in it. Now he’s not the unapproachable forest god; he’s your boss and your friend, who texts with emojis and makes flower crowns. “Thank you, Y/N,” he says. “That was wonderful. I don’t want you to feel pressured. Tonight was tonight, and tomorrow can be something else. Your job is safe, no matter what. But for as long as you want, you’ll have a place at our side. An equal partnership. And if the time comes and you have to move on, we’ll respect that.”

You take a moment to think about this. It’s certainly… odd. But the more you think, the more it makes a kind of sense. Hebryvyth and Eliatiss lived for centuries before you, and likely will go on long after you’re gone. For now– and for who knows how much longer– you’re lucky enough to share the moment with them. Why not seize it?

“That sounds great,” you say, trying to keep your voice level. So are you their girlfriend now, or what? Their lover? You figure there’s time to figure out terminology later. They break into bright smiles, and then their faces descend towards yours and you feel their lips against your cheeks, one on each side. You giggle. This, you think, you could get used to.


End file.
